Godzilla: Titan War
by moviedragon009
Summary: Eighteen years after the Battle of San Francisco, giant monsters have emerged all over the world and begin rampages that push mankind to the brink of extinction. Meanwhile, a girl discovers she has a unique and dangerous ability linking her to the King of Monsters that may tip the balance in our favor...But will her gift save or destroy human civilization as we know it?
1. Chapter 1

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: I have become aware of an indie film in production written and directed by Nacho Vigolando, and starring Anne Hathaway, titled _Colossal_. The basic premise of the film is very similar to this story, as you will find. Let it be said, however, that I started writing this story long before I ever knew Vigolando's project even existed; I would claim copyright infringement, except that this is a fan work, and Godzilla certainly doesn't belong to me, as we're all aware. My point in writing this is to let you know that this, aside from the basic premise, has nothing to do with _Colossal_, and is it's own independent work.**

The woman who became my mother gave me the name of Tanya when I was adopted, but every now and then she would call me Tan, and I came to prefer that name, making sure others knew me by it. What the woman who gave birth to me referred to me as other than daughter, I don't know. I've never met her. I don't suspect I ever will, either.

But that doesn't matter in this small blue motel pool. Here, I am completely calm and soothed by the lights up above whipping around on the concrete bottom, the heavy rumbling in my ears, my black hair fluttering with the current…I'll have to come up for air soon, of course, but that's not for a while. For now, I sit here at the bottom of the pool, letting my worries and cares float away in the waves. The thought of the vast majority of the world lying in ruins flees away. The memory of natural abominations waging war on humankind fades away. Even the resentment towards my birth mother is shut away into a small, unassuming corner. This is my domain, my space, my retreat, my place of Zen…if only I could listen to some Yoga music down here. Then my paradise would be complete.

It's strange how water is my haven; while most children are scared to go into the deep end of the pool, I wasn't. In fact, whenever I saw a vast body of water, the only thing that would stop me was my father, who would warn me that the lake monsters would come and devour me, acting out the scene with clawed fingers and arms scissoring back and forth.

Oh, the irony.

But right now, nothing can get to me …I feel so soothed by the gentle caresses of the water, I might as well fall asleep right then and there…

But then I hear muffled voices, followed by something like a soft boom in the water, shaking me out of my serenity. I look up to see a plume of bubbles streaming in from the surface, and coming straight towards me.

Something grabs me with thick, hairy arms! They seize me by the torso and lift me up, their strength catching me by surprise, holding me fast and refusing to let me break free. The sudden terror bursts the air out of my lungs, and icy fear begins to spread as my captor drags me up. I break through the surface, and I gasp to let fresh air into my lungs while spitting out the chlorinated liquid trying to force its way in.

I blink my eyes into focus. Across from me is the face of a middle-aged man, sparse grey hair draped across his brow like dead branches upon a dome, while the pool-water races past his dread-laden eyes in miniature torrents.

"Kid, are you alright?" he asks.

I push away from him. "GET AWAY FROM ME!" I shout as I lash my limbs through the water towards the steel ladder.

He follows close behind as I climb up out of the water, saying, "Well excuse me for saving your life, little missy!"

I look over to him and I see that he's been wearing both his shirt and jeans the whole time, all of it drenched in pool-water that runs down in torrents onto the concrete. The poor man, he was just trying to help! What was wrong with me?

"I wasn't drowning," I explain, trying to vent out the anger in my system, "I was just sitting there." A soft wind blows, and I shudder against the exaggerated cold against my bare skin, suddenly feeling very naked and exposed. I walk over to my pile of clothing, grab my towel, and start to rub off the water and along with it my ire and frustration. The heat generated from the friction helps, too.

"How was I supposed to know?" he asks, "You know you're not supposed to swim alone, even if it is the end of the world."

Protest begins to rise within me, only to be quelled by humiliation. Yeesh, he's right, I realize. How long had I been down there, anyway? It felt like an eternity; I really could have run out of oxygen and if he wasn't there I might as well have drowned. I really should apologize for my actions and…no, how DARE he disturb me! How dare he try to tell me what to do and how to behave, as if I was a child!

"Listen," the man says, "is there anything I can get you?"

I barely hear him; all I can respond with is a small growl in my throat. All I can dwell on is how he yanked me out of my meditation, quite possibly removing me from nirvana. My skin begins to burn like the rage inside of me as I rub my towel harder and harder. He deserved to be punished; I should pull his arms out of his sockets, throw him to the ground and turn his face into charcoal…

Through the corner of my eye, I can see him reaching out his hand…that cruel, rough, undeserving hand. "It's almost sunrise, maybe I can get you an early breakfast…"

I reel around and swat his hand away. "Don't touch me!" I yell.

He jumps back at my outburst. "Fine, sheesh!" he snaps back, and turns to walk away, shivering in the chilling air. The last words I hear as he walks through the pool gate consist of, "Ungrateful little…"

I watch as he turns a corner and disappears out of my life, but the wrath in me takes a long time to dissipate until calm returns and eats it away. Then, reason comes to me.

What on earth was that? I ask myself. All that man had done was try to help me, and I was ready to tear him limb from limb! Was I PMSing? I hope not. No, this was more like bipolar disorder…some strange, freaky, murderous form of bipolar disorder. I shrink at the thought of what might have happened if he had stayed around longer…was I really capable of killing, no, destroying a man?

I resumed drying myself off again, and as soon as my towel had soaked up enough water, I slipped my street clothes over my swimwear again. I look up to see the sky beginning to change its shade, the planets and stars beginning to dim with the growling light. When had I entered the pool, and how long had I been in there? Apparently long enough for some random guy to come along and think I had drowned.

I had done enough zoning out for one night. Maybe I was ready to talk to Sam this time…or maybe not, given that surge of emotion. No, I've got to talk to him sooner or later; fate might not be so lenient.

Climbing up and over the wall again, I make my way back to the camp in the city park. No one as of yet comes in my way, thank goodness, but as I come near the borders, I can see the soldiers in their jeeps, standing guard. For some reason, anxiety wriggles around inside of me, but there is no reason for it; I was no trespasser, for there was no such thing, and those large guns they were carrying weren't for people. They pay no attention to me as I enter the campground; they must have thought I was a visitor or something. Where once the place had been totally empty, now there's at least a few people here and there, either stoking fires in their grills or simply settling in for the breakfast line. Every now and then I hear voices coming over the radio or the television: "…military forces are busy evacuating as many civilians as they can in Dallas before the arrival of Kaiju Entropy, but given the speed at which the creature is moving, there's a very small chance of a survival percentage greater than thirty percent. Meanwhile, Johannesburg is in week two, day five of its attack by Kaiju Desiccation, and Seattle is in week three, day two of attack by Kaiju Strikeout. While officials are still waiting to give the green light for rescue parties in Johannesburg, militias are still being organized in the areas surrounding Seattle to rescue civilians, in spite of Kaiju Strikeout's continued presence in the city and current military attempts to bring the creature down. Meanwhile, Kaiju Apathy has been spotted approaching Rome after its landfall and attack on Naples; authorities are currently working to evacuate the Papacy…"

Seattle...That was three hours from here by car. Three hours away from here, everything I ever knew was being smashed to powder and ashes. But what could I do about it?

I approach the door to our canvas tent, but I tread carefully. Sam's probably still asleep in there; maybe I can slip inside without waking him up. I reach down, grab the golden zipper tag, and cautiously pull it upwards…but then it slips out of my fingers and slides upwards on its own. The flaps part, and I find myself looking into a pair of hazel eyes set within a strong, angular face topped with long, swept back brown hair that, while dulled by the fact of several hours' worth of sleep, still look at me with a sense of expectancy.

"Hey, Tan," he says.

"Morning, Sam," I say, my voice heightened by the surprise.

He manages to peck me on the cheek with his lips as I walk inside the dark tent, lit only by the beam of a flashlight that illuminated our two sleeping bags, and the two duffle bags that held our belongings. I can feel his eyes following me. "You smell like chlorine," he observes, "Have you been out swimming?"

"Yeah," I admit casually, "I just needed some time to think."

"And you didn't invite me why?" he asks, smiling.

"I didn't want to wake you up," I say as I toss my wet towel over a rope hanging from the top of the tent.

Enough of the casual talk, I think to myself. It's time you had a serious discussion.

I turn around to face him. "Sam," I say to him, "Can I talk to you for a moment?"

"Absolutely," he says, and we both sit down across from each other on our sleeping bags. There is a moment of silence before I gather the courage to speak—but Sam beats me to the punch. "Can I go first?" he asks.

"Um…sure," I reply, though unsure of what he has to say.

Before he speaks, he clears his throat, probably preparing some long-winded speech or something. But maybe, just maybe, he's been thinking the same thing that I've been thinking…is there a certain something that he was hiding in his pocket for me? Granted, a tent in a refugee camp isn't exactly the most romantic of places to pop the question, but a girl can dream, can't she?

What he had to say comes faster than I had expected. "Listen, you know they've been recruiting for people to go back to Seattle…"

No. That's not what I wanted to hear at all.

"…And they're running pretty low on men to go with them. So, I just need to know if it's okay with you if I go and join one of the rescue militias."

My answer comes faster than he probably expected. "No," I say, the refusal bursting out of my mouth, "It's not okay at all."

"Tan," he says, rising to his feet, "I know you don't like it, but there are people who need help in there. We're lucky to get out of there, but we can't leave anyone behind…"

I rise to my feet in response. "Sam Brody, this isn't about them. You're just trying to find an excuse to go Captain Ahab on that thing!"

"I won't be actually fighting the monster, I promise," he argues, "Besides, they wouldn't let us confront it anyway. I'll be back in less than a day, there's no need to worry…"

"No need to worry? Sam, I've heard about the other things that came with it. You'll be walking into a warzone, giant monster or no giant monster."

"Tan, you don't need to worry about me."

"Don't need to worry about you? I have every right to be worried; I don't want to be one of those girls who get a letter telling them their man has been slaughtered!"

"At least I'll die making a difference!" Sam responds.

"What good would you do?" I ask, "Seattle's as good as gone! Everywhere is as good as gone! All you'd be doing is prolonging the inevitable!"

His gaze averts away from mine. Perhaps I've been throwing the wrong curve at him. I grasp his big, strong hands in my small, soft ones, eliciting a slight upward tilt of his head.

"Sam," I whisper, "I don't want to lose you. Stay with me. It doesn't matter if we have to keep running our whole lives; we can adapt. I want you to be with me."

He looks up at me again. "Tan," he whispers, "…I just can't. I couldn't live with myself if I didn't' try. I just…" he pauses, "I'm sorry."

I can't believe this is happening. After all we've been through, after all the hell unleashed upon us…I feel my grasp slipping. He is so set on going…but I can't lose him. Not now, not after losing so many others in my life…

But then I feel a fire rising from within me. Why does he have to be so stubborn? Why does he need to throw his life away?

"You know what?" I say, pulling my hands back, "Fine. Go ahead. Throw yourself to the lions and leave me for all I care. That's what you want to do, isn't it?"

"Look, I know you're upset, but…" he starts.

I interrupt him, storming my way out of the tent. "But what? You feel like you wouldn't be like your old man if you didn't go monster hunting?"

"What? No!" he says, following after me into the early morning light, "Tan, I just…"

"You just WHAT?" I yell, "Do you think this will get your Mom back from the dead? Well let me tell you something, Sam, it WON'T. That's just life. Suck it up! She's gone, and she's not coming back! I don't care how many kaiju you go after, it's not going to change anything for anyone!" In that moment, I plant my hands against his chest and shove, pushing him back a foot or two. There's something inhumanely satisfying about that…

"Tan, what the heck is wrong with you?" he shouts.

In a brief moment of clarity, I realize what he's talking about. What IS wrong with me? I don't know, I want to say to him. I don't understand the words I'm saying. These aren't things I would let myself say to him of all people, so why am I saying these things?

Then, the fire rises. He doesn't understand; he doesn't get it! He's too stupid to see the reality before him! So much anger runs through me, anger that wants to be let out. All I want is to hurt something, to gouge out eyes, to rip out something's throat in my teeth…

What sort of horrible creature have I become?

Suddenly, I feel a sharp pain in my head. It bursts like a firework, and I find myself blinded by it. I lose control of my legs, and gravity pulls me down to the ground, but Sam's tough arms catch me. My breathing becomes faster and harder. I can't think and I can't speak. All that comes out of my mouth is incoherence.

"Tan, honey, baby, stay with me!" Sam says, then turns and yells, "Medic! Someone get a medic! I think she's having a seizure!"

I begin to drift; the world begins to blur. I can't tell Sam's form from the trunks of the trees surrounding us. The agony only rises in response to my pleas for mercy.

Out of everything, I hear a voice calling out somewhere, "Hey, everybody! You'll never believe this! He's back! Godzilla's back! He's coming down the bay towards Seattle…"

After that, I hear nothing…nothing except a deafening animal scream that echoes in my mind before everything turns dark.


	2. Chapter 2

How many times does one have to be in a helicopter for it to get boring? I haven't been keeping track, but somehow I've managed to get used to all of it; the wind blowing in my face and messing up the hair that I spent little to no time on anyway, the roar of the turbines, the thrumming of the blades, and the radio chatter of the people all around me. I can't even count on the scenery changing every now and then; I'm just in the wrong seat. The times when I do get to sit by the window seat is nice; I get to see rolling hills of deciduous forest, sometimes broad fields of wheat and corn, and sometimes barren stretches of desert. That's just in North America alone. Now I'm probably missing out on rugged mountains of coniferous forest in the Pacific Northwest.

And yet there always seems to be a depressing end to each of these trips I take; the smoldering aftermath of what happens when a multi-ton beast that defies the square cube law and countless other laws of physics and biology combined decides to go wild. Which has been happening a lot, I should note. But should I really be complaining? This is all part of the job, the life I've chosen to live with Monarch signing my paycheck.

I feel rather out of place on this chopper; everyone else is wearing military fatigues and carrying a massive rifle, and all I've got among my equipment inside my pack a data pad and a cooler bag. I wonder, is it weird that I'm the only scientist on this whirly-gig? And that part of these guys' job is to make sure I make it out alive? I just wish I had a gun of my own…not that it would do me much good, but at least I would feel safer.

I peek past the other guys on my left to see the landscape rolling by through the window, and I manage to catch a small glimpse of still more tree-swamped mountains. Weird; isn't there supposed to be a volcano around here somewhere?

"Are we there yet?" I say to the big soldier guy next to me.

He turns his head to look at me, and I can see double reflections of a twenty-something girl with tangled orange hair tucked beneath a thick pair of headphones, pale skin sparsely specked with freckles, and hazel eyes looking back at me. What I wouldn't give to have a sister…

"You'll know when we're there, ma'am," he says to me before turning back.

Yeesh, I just wish someone would call me Liza instead of 'Miss Cranston' or 'ma'am' for once; I don't have anything against the brave men and women of the military, but the formality does get a little old.

I sag back into my seat; the boredom's starting to get to me. Maybe it would be a good idea to know what I have to look out for on my visit to Seattle; from my pocket, I manage to extract the data-pad from my pack, and flip over to some on the information available. It isn't much; apparently the destroyer of The City of Flowers first emerged from the northern edge of Lake Washington and, like every other monster that popped up in the last thirteen years, wasted no time in smashing everything in its path. A multitude of photos extracted from both professional cameras and mobile phones paint a sparse picture of the beast; the good majority focus on the thick, apparently impenetrable segmented armor plating, colored a mottled blue-gray, while a precious few others snatched glimpses of a line of tree-trunk like legs pounding the pavement into dust. Unfortunately, much of the animal is hidden by skyscraper and clouds of ash. It's a real shame; as a scientist, it would be great to study Strikeout up close and personal, at least to get a good approximation on its taxonomic classification. If only it wasn't on an apocalyptic rampage in Washington State, with what's left of the local military trying to kill it…

"Attention," the voice of the pilots buzz in our ears, "we are approaching our destination. Be armed and ready to go."

Speaking of which…

My helicopter-mates start to load their rifles. As for me, it's just a couple of deep breaths, a quick check on the camera's battery strength's, and a kiss on my lucky fox pendant.

Just then, I notice that the sky outside has turned a particularly dark shade of grey. Just a little bit ominous…

I feel the gravity begin to drop somewhat; we must be descending. As we do so, I can see through the other window dark shapes rushing by.

Time passes by, with it the descent just keeps going on and on. Something akin to anxiety worms around in me, and more and more I just wish that the door would open and, so long as I had a parachute, that I could just jump out of the helicopter and down into the city below, just to get the waiting part out of the way.

Before I know it, the helicopter slows to a near halt, and begins a slow drop. I quietly count down the seconds until a heavy _WHUMP_ signals that the tires have hit the ground. With that, everyone, including me, starts to unbuckle themselves from their seats. The top-ranking soldier on the plan stands up near the front of the chopper and starts to shout orders. "Remember, you've got two hours to get in there, find any survivors, and escort them to the rendezvous point. If you show up later than that, you _will_ get left behind. Do NOT directly engage the enemy unless attacked. I repeat, DO NOT directly engage the enemy unless attacked."

The enemy? Is that what we're referring to Strikeout as? Was that really an accurate designation? That would imply that the creature possessed the capacity to choosing a moral alignment…then again, the scientific understanding of the intelligence of these creatures was shallow at best…or maybe I'm just overthinking things, again.

My thoughts are distracted, however, once the back door opens. In near perfect unison, the soldiers stand and file out, while I do my best to keep up and follow along.

Stepping outside, I feel rather unnerved by what I find; we've landed in the middle of what used to be a parking lot outside of what must have been a small shopping center at one point. Now it's been reduced to enormous slabs and chunks of concrete and rubble, accompanied by abandoned, damaged cars that take the brunt of the wind and dust kicked up by the rotating blades of the helicopter's dual rotors. The scorch marks covering them, however, testify that no monster was here; perhaps it was a stray rocket or something during an earlier battle.

After I get to a short distance away, the rest of the soldiers roll out of the helicopter. As soon as the last one has filed out, the door/ramp lifts back up again, and after a few seconds the helicopter lifts off into the air, and grows smaller and smaller as it flies off to the east. With it, I sense that one last secure place of refuge has left. Now, we're on our own.

Disturbed by the helicopter's takeoff no more, the air itself has an uncomfortable smell of smoke and burnt things to it, tempting me to pull the oxygen mask out of my pack and put it over my mouth. I turn to the west, and in the distance, I can see the towering skyscrapers of downtown—or at least the ones that are still standing against the sky, darkened by billowing clouds of smoke and ash. One of the towers partially crumbles before my eyes, a good chunk of it falling to the ground. Gunshots and tank-fire echo out there, somewhere.

The soldiers who came with me on the helicopter start to divide into small groups and march off in various directions, except for two. These two soldiers come straight up to me; one of them is about half a head taller than his companion, while both manage to stand taller than me. Both of their features are covered up by their headgear, but I can see that the taller man has slightly tanned skin.

"Miss Cranston," the taller man says, "Corporal Roeser and Private-First Class Meltzer. We've been ordered to accompany you, ma'am."

"Glad to meet you, boys," I say to them, "You know why we're here?"

"No, ma'am," Roeser says, "All we know is that we're supposed to accompany you to your destination." That sounds about right; it wouldn't be like Monarch to tell two army soldiers what the Monarch scientist they're body-guarding is going after.

At that moment, a deep, gurgling growl echoes through the city above a barrage of tank-fire, briefly pulling away our attentions. Just the thought of what made that noise sparks a burst of shudders.

"Well, then," I tell them as I pull out my little yellow GPS and punch in the coordinates, "I'm not one to laze around in a war zone, so let's get to it." The coordinates come up rather quickly. "Our destination is just about two clicks northwest of here," I inform the soldiers, "Let's go."

And off we go, my two armed companions flanking me on either side on our jog. While there isn't an obvious and immediate path of destruction left by the beast, it's obvious that the mere knowledge of the creature was enough to cause alarm in the civilian population; much of what we come across consists of broken windows, cars standing forlorn in various states of damage, and belongings scattered across the ground; once or twice we come across the lifeless form of some hapless victim of mass panic, bruised and beaten by hundreds of fear-driven feet. Barking dogs pepper the ambiance of the scenery almost forlornly, making me think of my poor spaniel waiting for me back home….

Focus on the mission, Liza, I tell myself.

But chaos makes its presence known even more so as we get closer to the downtown area where the buildings grow taller, blocking out more and more of the sky. In addition to what we've seen before (increased tenfold), now telephone poles and streetlights lay like fallen trees across the streets, while fires burn out of control in various places, while cars and even trucks crowd the streets even more, some clumped together in large piles, forcing us to clamber on top of and jump across their roofs to get along our way.

I check the time on my watch; we've got about an hour and forty-five minutes to get to where I need to be, and to get back to the rendezvous point. That's plenty generous, I'll give the army that…

As we come upon an intersection where the traffic light dangles by a thread, Roeser raises his hand, halting us in our path. At his word, we run over to and duck behind a taxicab, where he and Meltzer raise and aim their weapons towards the south street. I look in the same direction, wondering what Roeser had detected in that vicinity to make them take up defensive positions; it certainly wasn't Strikeout…

A middle-aged man, covered in dust, comes scrambling down the street, evidently terrified of something.

My first instinct is humane. "Hey!" I shout, "Over here! We can get you to—"

"NO! RUN!" he shouts to our surprise, "GET AWAY FROM HERE!"

"Sir, calm down," Roeser calls out to him, "It's okay, we're here to help…"

At that moment, a gray-skinned, flat-bodied creature the size of a large horse charges around the corner upon four long, skinny legs. It tackles the man to the ground, spearing a long, curved, tube-like beak into the man's chest back, even as he screams out in agony. Immediately, the soldiers' rifles roar with deafening fire, forcing my hands over my ears. Riddled with bullet holes oozing with copious amount of black fluid, the creature collapses, blood spilling out of its gleaming proboscis.

Roeser and Meltzer first come out from behind the cab, followed closely by me, still recovering from the shock of what just happened. We cautiously approach the body of the man and the creature, keeping clear of the pools of blood. Meltzer fires a single shot into the body of the grey creature, and it makes no move in response. Neither does the man, to my personal despair, and to Roeser's confirmation.

On closer inspection, I find that the creature itself lacks eyes of any kind, but it does seem to have a row of gills on either side of its neck. It's ribcage is visible through its dry, flaking skin.

"What is that thing?" Meltzer asks.

The sheer fact of the creature's attack speaks volumes about its nature to me. "It must be some kind of parasite," I explain through trembling words, "It must have been living off of Strikeout before the attack, and shaken off during the attack. It must have been starving for some time, and could only go after people…"

"I've heard of these things," Roeser says, "Some of the boys who come back call them 'Gorgons'; a lot of the other Kaiju are crawling with things like this."

"That's true," I confirm. Monarch studies had found plenty of similar creatures left behind in the wake of the Kaiju destruction, each one unrelated but uniquely suited to subsisting off their individual host, almost like a miniature ecosystem.

Personally, I'm not sure who to feel sorry for more, the man or the creature; obviously I should feel more sorry for the man who was enduring hell before getting his blood sucked out, but there's still some sympathy for the starving Gorgon. How long had it been wandering around blind in this alien environment, separated from the host to which it had been adapted to, scrambling around desperately to survive…

"Miss Cranston," Roeser says to me, shaking me out of my thoughts, "We've got to go."

I nod my head in agreement, eager to get away from the horror of this scene, but at the same time wishing that we could do something out of respect for the fallen civilian.

Deep down, however, I hold hope that where we failed here, we may make up for it where we're going.

More gunshots fire away in the distance as we continue down the streets. Now, however, we are more wary of what may be lurking around the corner and in the shadows. The closer we get, however, the more debris stood in our way, slowing our progress considerably. As we move along, I want to strike up some conversation with these two men, just to distract from the loss of life we just witnessed. Maybe it's all the running we're doing, or the nature of the mission, but I can't bring myself to say anything aside from how close to where we're supposed to be we are.

Looking back down at the GPS, I find that the tiny dots on the screen pinpointing our position are coming very close to our destination. "We're almost there," I tell the soldiers.

"Almost where?" Roeser asks.

"You'll see," I answer.

Just a few more twists and turns, over a couple of cars, and past the shelled out remains of a Starbucks, and suddenly, "There it is," I say. Across the street lies a tall building colored a faded red, a holdover from somewhere in the 50's and 60's. Its means of identification, rendered in steel letters, still remains intact: _Holdman Research Facilities limited, _a cover name for one of Monarch's most important research laboratories, of course. Knowing that the goal was within grabbing distance, I rush towards the metal doors of the place, the soldiers following close behind me. Along the way, I put away the GPS, knowing that it won't serve me very well where we're going. At first, the locked doors bar our entry, but with a solid kick from Meltzer, we break into the darkened lobby. The flashlights we produce illuminate a scene of random chaos, with scattered papers and smashed furniture strewn across the floor, while the front desk stands forlornly, a dead computer monitor standing as a blank sentinel.

The soldiers follow close behind me as I head past the lobby and down the adjacent hall. "What are we looking for, exactly?" Roeser asks.

"We've got to get to the lower basement," I explain, there's something there I need to pick up.

Fortunately, a directory still hangs on one of the wall; memorizing its guidance, we move towards the indicated door, and through it we descend a staircase to the lower depths of the facility, the air growing colder around us and the need for a flashlight becoming increasingly necessary. It isn't until the very last floor that we find a large chrome door blocking our path, with a card reader as the only way in; a surprisingly modern addition to such an old place. This time, my MONARCH badge, rather than an assault from a booted foot or the butt of a rifle, should come in handy.

"Ma'am," Meltzer protests, "There hasn't been any power to this area since Strikeout's attack; I don't think that's going to do any…"

Once the card is read, the door opens without question.

"These particular facilities come armed with their own backup generators," I explain to the perplexed soldier, "in case of situations like these. Don't the Boy Scouts have a corresponding bit of wisdom that they follow?"

Going past the metal doorway, we enter into a long hallway of chrome refrigeration units lined up like lockers along the wall, each marked with a particular identification code, and illuminated by rows of fluorescent lights hanging up above. I already know which one I need to visit; with the soldiers following close behind, I run down the hall past each fridge. Finally, after what seems like eternity, I find it: Unit 23-18. I grasp and pull the handle, and letting loose a rush of cold air from inside. Looking within, I find racks loaded with hundreds of petri dishes, and begin sliding out each one, searching for the right one.

It isn't until I hit the third rack down that I discover the one that I'm looking for, and it almost makes my heart stop when I find it. Very gently I reach down and clutch it, and holding it upward in my palm to read the label, written in sharpie marker on a piece of tape:

**COMPOUND RG-1, OBTAINED FROM M-01, 5/16/2014, SAMPLE 23.**

"Um, pardon me for asking," Roeser asks, "but what is that stuff, exactly?"

"This," I explain while I put the dish into the cooler bag inside my pack, "Could be the answer to our little pest control problem."

That's the short answer, anyway; the more classified answer is that it is a substance found in blood samples from the creature popularly known as 'Godzilla' from his last landfall at San Francisco. Samples of the compound had been sent over the years to other Monarch facilities across the world for further study, and many of those studies indicated that it may be the secret to Godzilla's incredible durability and longevity. With the dawn of the Titan War, many of those facilities were destroyed in the wake of the attacks. Hence, my reasons for being here; to obtain one of the surviving samples before the facility was destroyed, and bring it back to Monarch Headquarters. But I'm not liable to tell the two soldiers that information, which is kind of ironic given what benefits it could give someone like them…with the necessary tweaking, of course.

Just then, Roeser's radio crackles. "_Code Red, I repeat, Code Red,_" a voice comes in through the white noise, "_Kaiju Strikeout has changed direction; its turned away from the assault line and is heading southwest, FAST. All rescue teams within the immediate vicinity get to the rendezvous point NOW!_"

As quickly as I can, I zip up the pack and follow Roeser and Meltzer out of the basement; after all, there's no need for me to stick around here any longer than I need to. We charge up the flights of stairs, head back down the hallway, and break back into the open air as fast as we can, but even then it seems like we're not moving fast enough.

Once outside, my heart begins to race at the sight of a wall of ash and smoke billowing towards us while buildings topple and crumble into oblivion, all accompanied by the sound of gigantic feet pounding the ground and a deep gurgling growl rippling through the air. I've never come so close to such an apocalyptic sight, like Vesuvius had just erupted…

"Miss Cranston, MOVE!" Private Meltzer shouts out.

At his voice, I turn and run after the two of them as hard as I can, being propelled by something I haven't felt in a long time: the fear of dying.

Never before had I felt so strongly the need to survive, and I find myself praying for the chance to make it out of this city alive.

Sprinting our way down the street, we make it to the next intersection. We turn to our left, hoping that we can jump to the sidelines and let the threat pass by. But then…

BAM! The towering building adjacent to us suddenly explodes forward in a fireless explosion, scattering shattered debris, and to my horror screaming people as well, towards the ground in a deadly shower. Turning to dodge the raining chunks of structure, I briefly stumble, and out of the corner of my eye I see a huge, mantis-like arm, covered in plates and tipped with a large, club-like mass, retract back into the ash cloud.

That only inspires me to run faster.

"So where—huh, huh-exactly _is _the—huh, huh-rendezvous point?" I shout to Roeser.

"Just further up ahead," he shouts back, "Just keep running!"

Further down the street we go, jumping over stranded cars and climbing over fallen rubble, but even then, the beast continues behind us, unrelentingly constant in its path, and worse, gaining. But there was no way that it could be after us intentionally; that much I know. But that doesn't change the fact that when it catches up to us, it will trample us beneath its feet. So I keep on going, determined to reach the rendezvous point.

"This way!" Private Meltzer shouts, pointing towards a still standing low-rise hotel up ahead, "The rendezvous point!" He's right; even now I can see a large double-rotor helicopter touching down on the roof. Salvation! Blessed salvation at last!

As I run into the shadow of a stable skyscraper, the ground suddenly _shudders_, throwing me off my feet and onto the ground. The soldiers fail to see this, and run out of the shadow…and into the path of a rushing flood of seawater, sweeping them away. I have no time to think about where that water came from; all I know is that two people, whom I've only known for a few hours, have just lost their lives to it, my horror embodied by the agonizing scream that erupts from my throat.

The water surges towards me; having no other choice, I rush towards a slab of stone high enough to keep me out of its reach, and clamber up its side. The swell flows past me, sweeping away anything light enough away; I find my eyes following the current as it washes past me, only to collide with a massive pair of armored forelimbs taller than the surrounding buildings, covered in enormous scratches flowing across the surface, and past them to finally see a gigantic, bony white head curved like a scimitar with a long nose ending in a point, compound eyes glistening like blackberries set on either side and bearing down, and a mouth flanked by a pair of jagged mandibles that click away while drool spills out in torrents past its sharp, saw-like teeth. The whole thing is set upon a massive domed body covered in segmented, studded armor that blots out the sky above.

It looks like you got your wish, I think to myself.

Strikeout lurches forward, its ten pillar-like feet marching forth in synchronized motion regardless of the flood before it.

I can't believe this is happening. Five years I've spent in the field, and this is how I'm going to die, with the world at the mercy of these engines of destruction, all because of my failure. Tears begin to run down my face as I think of all the people who were counting on me…I'm so sorry, I want to say. I tried; I tried so hard to make things right through my research….

There's nowhere I can run, now. All that's left for me to do now is close my eyes, and let the end come…

Over the roaring rush of the water, I hear the sound of a screeching roar echo through the buildings. It's a sound that I thought I would never hear in my lifetime, not in person.

I look up, and it seems as if Strikeout as heard it too; having halted in its path, it backs away, and turns to the direction from where the sound came, roaring back.

The roar comes again, louder and harsher.

Roaring again, Strikeout pushes its way through the corner of a building as it marches forth towards the intruder.

I can't believe my luck. I'm going to live through this day; even the floodwater slows down and recedes, letting me continue on my mission! But could it really be…?

As soon as the water is low enough, I hop back down and resume my mad rush towards the helicopter.

It isn't long until I've reached my destination, charged through the lobby, up the stairs, and eventually found my way towards the roof, where the other soldiers, along with a host of frightened civilians, are loading on to the choppers, hastened by the high-ranking officers.

I waste no time in clambering aboard…but before I do, I take one last look behind me, to see if my ears aren't fooling me.

In the distance, I can see Strikeout pushing through a sea of buildings and throwing up a cloud of ash and dust towards the western shore. There, I see him; he stands like a towering mountain against the sky upon two thick, powerful legs, a triple row of jagged, pointed spines traveling down his back and across his tail. He bares long, hooked claws upon small forearms. His head, even from this distance, remains fixed upon the approaching opponent; I can't see the details of his face, but I know he's staring down his foe, quite likely sizing him up…

He lets out another roar, and I shiver at the sound.

I step off the ramp, and back on to the ground. There is no way on this green earth that I'm going to miss a match involving the one and only Godzilla.


	3. Chapter 3

All I can see is utter blackness before my eyes… what in the world is going on…I hear voices, but I don't understand a word they're saying…it feels like I'm being pulled, hauled, carried, but there's no strength in me to respond…at least I'm feeling _something_ at the moment. It's a sign that I'm not dead yet.

Like a soft rustling of the wind, I hear whispers on the wind, not of words, but of noises…noises like thunder, like crackling fire, like stone being ground to powder…

Then, the blackness clears away, but not through any action of mine…

I'm high in the air, with the entire city of Seattle sprawling across the landscape before me; I know it, because I can see the Space Needle, Lake Washington, and beyond that, Mount Baker in the distance. I'd know that I was in Seattle if I was on the ground, but this is good enough anyway.

It has to be a dream, right? That's the only logical explanation I can come up with right now.

But this Seattle isn't how I remember seeing it. Nor is it how I would like to remember seeing it; the sky is dark and ashy grey, much of downtown has been reduced to rubble, and fires are raging as far as the eye can see, like a war has erupted within the city….

On top of all that, Kaiju Strikeout marches towards me, throwing up a cloud of ash in its wake, roaring and screeching as it waves its enormous front legs at me. I've never seen it so fully, before; its segmented carapace is covered in splatters of green turned dark from the soot of blast marks, yet nothing so much as a dent can be seen. But all I can focus on is that face behind those forelegs; that horrible, hag-like face with those lidless insect eyes boring into me, just as they did on that fateful day…

Okay, so it isn't a dream as much as it is a nightmare…a vivid, frighteningly realistic nightmare.

Wake up, wake up, WAKE UP, TAN! Run, you moron, turn around and run for your life!

Suddenly, everything goes dark. But before any hope can be allowed to glimmer, the scene is back, and the destroyer of Seattle is coming ever closer.

Why is it coming after me again after last time? Wasn't destroying my apartment, campus, and most of the city I grew up in enough? Wasn't taking my loved ones away from me enough to satisfy it? Why is this happening?!

I've got to get away. I've got to find some way out of this. I want to see Sam again. I want to live!

And yet, I can't run away. I keep moving towards it, all against my will in some a march. I can't move any part of myself at all; it's like I'm Malcom McDowell strapped in a straitjacket with my eyes pried open to take in the whole show, except the show is coming to eat me. I can't even move my own eyeballs! This has to be the worst nightmare I've ever had in my life…

But then I realize that there's another set of sounds all around me; the thundering of gigantic feet far down below, the shattering of glass, steel and concrete to my sides, and a deep, thrumming growl that reverberates in my ears, penetrating my mind, growing louder and louder as Strikeout charges towards me.

Then, I feel something else, but it couldn't possibly come from me. It grows stronger and stronger like a wildfire, and I can feel its heat overcoming the cold of my own panic…but not enough to extinguish it completely. Nor does it consume my own conscious thinking this time…

Smashing through a medium-sized building, Strikeout has come too close for comfort now, close enough for me to see the details of its bug-eyed, hook-nosed face between its folded forearms. It screeches out, but its own call is drowned out by the one that bursts out all around me, filling my head with its deafening, screeching thunder.

In that brief moment, I instantaneously know what roar I'm hearing.

Is that _Godzilla?_ _I'm in Godzilla's head?_

Wait a minute; maybe this is part of the dream. If that's the case, then I've got nothing to worry about, and my only real problem is trying to wake up from this night—

WHAM!

A flood of agony suddenly rips through me, and I find myself going backwards as Godzilla crashes through several buildings behind him—or is it us? Through peripheral vision, I watch as Strikeout waves its outstretched limbs through the air with the attitude of a boxer ready to attack…again, I quickly realize.

That certainly felt real…severely and very agonizingly real.

But how did I feel that? I didn't feel anything else up until then…except, I realize, for that anger…more importantly, why am I in Godzilla's head to begin with? What person dreams of seeing things from a giant monster's point of view and NOT has any control? What kind of freakish nightmare am I in where I can feel pain?

WHAM! BAM! Two more blows strike into my…I mean, his side, I guess, in rapid succession. What was painful before has only become excruciating; did those punches break a couple of ribs or something? The sheer force pushes us backwards, and from behind I can hear entire structures crumbling and tumbling.

Again, that rage burns hot…but strangely enough, we—or is it he? I have no idea at this point—turn the other way. Suddenly it's forward, away from the enemy and down the street.

Oh thank goodness, it's over! I'm not going to—wait a minute, are we retreating? I'm happy that I'm not going to suffer being Strikeout's punching bag, but isn't it a little out of character for Godzilla to run away from a fight? Not that I know all that much about giant monsters, granted…

But then there's another turn, and Strikeout's back in view again, from the side this time.

Not retreating, I realize; just circling, changing position.

Suddenly, things start to move forward very fast. Strikeout's hull comes closer with surprising speed, and a pair of clawed hands covered in dark greyish-green scales rise up into view, their palms away from me and towards the hull.

But Strikeout rapidly twists around back to face me—us, again, and those two boxing arms come flying straight into the side. A pained howl comes rolling through, again as we back away again. Another try, and once again, the forelegs pummel away.

No matter how many attempts are made, Strikeout refuses to let us move out of its line of sight, shifting around to face us...man, it feels weird to use that particular pronoun. But I can't even think of all the reasons why it's weird; all I know is that I'm hurting, and Godzilla's not getting anywhere with this thing. Bombs and tanks haven't been able to kill it, so what could Godzilla due at this point? In the interest of survival, wouldn't it be simpler to just retreat?

Then, of all the things to do, we start moving towards the giant bug again.

_Come ON!_ I want to shout, _What are you, a masochist?_ There's got to be some way to beat this thing and fast…

Suddenly, there's a deep, rippling growl all around me, and my view starts to tilt forward and downward. Then, everything becomes a rapid blur, and then I hear a heavy _whump,_ followed by a distressed screech.

Oh that's right. He's got a tail.

Godzilla turns his head to look behind, and to my personal astonishment, Strikeout actually seems to have been knocked to the side by the blow of Godzilla's tail…but not enough to knock him completely over. In fact, he's getting back onto his feet, his clubbed forelimbs aiding in getting back into a proper position.

Okay then, I think, maybe one or two more times will do the trick…

But before Godzilla can try it again, Strikeout screeches out and charges right at us, tackling with all of its strength and shoving the big reptile right into the side of a taller building. My entire right side becomes subject to intense agony as we slam into the structure; I can't feel the glass, steel, and concrete itself, but the pain is definitely there…along with the pain of one of Strikeout's clubs slamming into the side of Godzilla's, and in turn, my head.

Things become very blurry after that; colors blend clumsily into each other as Godzilla stumbles around, the building crumbling on top of him. Still, he's on his own two feet, and I can still think clearly, though I don't know how. Through the blur, I can see the rough shape of Strikeout pulling back, as if satisfied with that blow—only to unleash two more.

Each blow makes itself quite manifest, but Godzilla doesn't seem able to resist; is he teetering on the edge of consciousness from that last blow to the head? Then why am I still here, taking each hit? Why do I have to deal with this? Why am I the hapless cameraman riding on the quarterback in the middle of the football field? What did I do to deserve this?! I can't stand this anymore!

Through the edge of Godzilla's vision, I can see Strikeout getting ready to slam his body again…

No. _NOT AGAIN! NO MORE!_

With a flame of my own rising within me, I want nothing more than to reach out and stop that hideous spawn of a diseased lobster right in his tracks…

And somehow I do, the shock rippling right through me.

Wait, WHAT?

I look down to see two scaly arms clenching a long foreleg like a vise. What more, I can _feel them_; the scales, the claws, the strange burning heat coursing through the very core of these arms, the rough, sandpaper-like skin of the foreleg in my hands jerking around as Strikeout tries to pull away. Still, I can't let go—or _won't_ let go. I'm too astonished to do anything else.

Suddenly, everything jitters for a bit, then things clear up again; Godzilla must have come back from the brink of unconsciousness. He looks up, and I see Strikeout pulling further and further away, screeching out in protest. Godzilla refuses to budge, and I don't let go.

Strikeout, on the other hand, is clearly determined to get away, so much so that it's entire foreleg is outstretched, exposing a bare shoulder.

I begin to feel something new in Godzilla; I'm not quite sure how to describe it exactly, but if anything, it seems like he's gotten very excited, and very satisfied at the same time.

I realize what it is he's getting excited about. We've just exposed a weak spot.

Then, something begins to grow; not the heat of an emotion, but of something else…

Suddenly, everything is lost in a burst of bright blue light, and all sound is drowned out by a furious roar, like that of a jet turbine.

It takes about fifteen seconds or so, but eventually, the blue light disappears, and everything is clear again. Having no choice, I look at a screeching and wailing Strikeout before us; the very base of its shoulder has been burned to a crisp. Bits of charcoaled flesh actually crumble off of his body.

I'm too stunned to think anything at the moment, but I do feel a brief moment of pity towards Strikeout…but any pity is shooed away by the knowledge that this thing tried to KILL me.

My grip through Godzilla's claws is still fastened on that foreleg, I realize; it's actually gone limp. Okay then, I think, maybe this would be a good time to—

Suddenly, Godzilla begins to pull, and I realize that I can't feel them anymore; he's back in control, again.

He pulls again, much harder this time, and to my shock, the arm comes right off with a sickening _crack_. Dark red blood showers from the wound down into the city below with the ashes of the flesh.

The air is suddenly rent in twain with Strikeout's pained howling as he stumbles around, the loss of its arm throwing it off balance. Godzilla meanwhile, casually tosses the long forelimb aside, and starts moving towards the opponent, this time out of reach of the remaining arm. In a new burst of speed, the side of Strikeout's carapace comes quickly into view, and _wham!_ In spite of all the injuries sustained, Godzilla slams into the carapace, and this time, the creature comes falling over onto its side, crushing several buildings beneath its massive bulk. Five column-like legs flail helplessly in the air.

All I can do is watch in utter horror at the brutality of it all.

Things shift away, and I find myself looking down at Strikeout's armored, toothed head waving around in desperation, screeching and crying out while its other arm scrapes the ground.

Then, Godzilla's thick, pillar-like foot comes into view and blocks Strikeout's head before coming down hard. The squealing only increases in pitch and intensity, lasting for nearly a minute.

Then, at long last, it stops, punctuated by a nauseating _crack_ and a harsh gurgling sound.

The foot lifts up and away, revealing a partially flattened head, the eyes crushed in, and strange-colored fluids pouring out onto the asphalt.

I want to puke my guts out, but thankfully, my view is pulled away from the gruesome sight and towards the sky. A particularly triumphant roar reverberates all around me, echoing out into the distance.

Then, I begin to feel warm again. This must be calm, isn't it? And with that, things begin to slowly fade away into darkness again…

* * *

I open my eyes, and I'm met by a blinding light. I feel something draped over me, and very quickly I realize that there's a blanket draped over me.

Somewhere, someone—or rather, a lot of someones—are cheering for some reason.

I sit up, expecting to feel a barrage of agony, but feeling nothing. If anything, I just feel groggy and worn out. I look around to see several a row of beds, some empty and some occupied, on either side of me, all contained within the dark green of a hospice tent with spotlights positioned over them.

"What in the world…?" I wonder out loud to myself. Was that whole thing a dream? Maybe it was; maybe all that pain I'd felt was from a lack of anesthetics or something…

I turn to see two people coming in from outside; a nurse holding a clipboard, and Sam. They're both talking to each other at first, but look up in surprise to see me.

"Tan!" Sam says. He runs over to the side of my bed, saying, "Tan, are you feeling alright?"

"Yeah, yeah," I answer, simply glad to see him, "What happened?"

"Well, we aren't sure," he answers, "At first we thought it was a seizure but then…" He suddenly pauses in midsentence as he looks at me.

"Sam? What's wrong?" I ask.

"I—I don't know," he says, "There's something up with…um…"

"Wrong with what?" I demand, "Tell me!"

Unable to come up with an answer, he pulls out his cellphone and hands it to me. "Look straight in the glass," he instructs.

I do so, and peer into the black mirror, careful to see what it is that's gotten him so speechless. Please don't let it be some kind of weird blemish, I pray…

I look, and at first I don't see anything. Then I find myself looking at my left eye.

That can't be my eye. Not _my _eye! That eye isn't the normal brown it's supposed to be; the iris has turned a fiery shade of orange-yellow, and the pupil has become a narrow slit, giving it an overall cat-like appearance…

No, that's not right. If anything, it's more like a lizard's eye.

_**Check out What Kaiju Strikeout looks like by following the link here!**_

_** art/Kaiju-Strikeout-508936987**_


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